Committed
by hyacinthian
Summary: [Phantom of the Opera] Why make her lie to you to save me? Christine's not lying anymore.


Title: Committed

Author: ScarlettMithruiel

Classification: A

Rating: K

Disclaimer: Phantom of the Opera doesn't belong to me. It belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber, first of all, and all other parties involved.

Author's Note: I owned the original Broadway cast version of the _Phantom of the Opera _soundtrack before I saw the musical, saw the movie, or read the book. In the book, Christine is blonde with blue eyes. In the movie, Christine is a brunette. So I chose brunette for the fanfic. There were a couple of elements I didn't like about the whole gist of the thing. I know she loved Raoul, but he was her first love. And few people ever end up with their first love. I also think that there's a large part of her that _does _love the Phantom. I absolutely _love _the Phantom. I think he's a great character. I don't hate Raoul, but eh. _Anyway_, you could have skipped all the background info if you wanted, but enjoy the story. Please.

* * *

_Music is love in search of a word._

_-Sidney Lanier_

* * *

The French countryside was renowned for its beauty. That was precisely the reason they had moved there. Their house was large, housing them and their five children. She was amazed at how her children were nowadays. Some resembled her husband, some resembled her. They seemed to clutch the world with their hands. She sat on the verandah, watching the sun set. The orange rays seemed to drift, beckoning for her help, as it seemingly sank into watery depths.

She was no longer the renowned beauty that had given her acclaim. Her once lustrous, dark curls were graying and losing some of their color. Her pale, virginous skin seemed tainted, and weathered, either by life, sun, or childbirth. Her eyes no longer shone with their heavenly pallor. Instead, they seemed dull. Monotony seemed to exude itself into every crevice of her life. Her children once brought excitement into her life, but no longer. They were grown now, and they did not cherish her as she had her father.

Raoul himself had not been as charming as he had in his—_their_—youth. Unlike her, monotony was not a prison for him. Montony was more like a reprieve. He welcomed it. It allowed him rest, unlike his lifestyle. She doubted the sincerity of his feelings nowadays. He left the house more and more, and she saw him less and less. He left in the morning for his work, returned for dinner, and left for some leisurely activity. She used to hope and pray that he did not frequent brothels or the like, but she had stopped. She had stopped caring.

They had been childhood sweethearts. He was her first love. They had married and quickly established a family. He had been handsome, and kind. How was she supposed to know that first love didn't necessarily mean true love? Yet she had loved him, and he her, but lately, the love seemed to wane. There seemed to be less and less every day. It was more perfunctory shows of affection than anything. He kissed her lightly on the lips or cheek, and headed to dinner. Their children seemed too preoccupied with their own lives to notice the problems with their marriage.

She remembered her days at the _Opera Populaire. _Her mind recoiled vehemently. Her _days_? No, her _years. _She had spent a large section of her life in that building. And a part of her wanted to scream at her for forgetting that. The people she had grown so close to…what had happened to them? She still kept in close contact with Mme. and Mlle. Giry. They were her family, in a way. The theater had closed shortly after the chandelier incident. She allows a small smile to grace her face. The familiar bars of music began to drift into her head.

A hand on her shoulder quickly pulls her back to the present. It is Raoul, face weathered and tired, eyes no longer sparkling, hair graying. He wants to tell her he's leaving again, and he'll return late, so she should not wait. Her voice reveals itself first. "Raoul, we must talk." Her voice still holds the range to sing those operatic arias, and a sudden urge tells her to, but she refuses to listen. He pauses in his step, and sits next to her on the step.

"About what?" She clutches his hands, and it does not hold the same excitement and vigor for her as it once did. She avoids the question.

"Are you happy?" He is surprised at the sudden turn of the subject.

"What? Of course I'm happy, _cherie_." With that, he kisses her hand. She sighs, and lays her head in her hands. "Sophie is upstairs by herself, so you should go inside and watch her." He begins to leave, and the sound that she hears of his retreating footsteps portrays him as cowardly, in her mind. A mere shadow of his former self. She gets up reluctantly and heads into the house. _Has he forgotten that Sophie is fifteen and can take care of herself?_ Like all other aspects of her life, she heads into the house, a perfunctory show of domesticity to her husband.

Her mind, never ceasing action, continues to churn thoughts and memories together. It seems as if it's fabricating another life for her. She remembers the man who seemed to dominate her life. There always seemed to be an air of handsomeness around him, despite the mask, which hid half his face. She later learned why it hid half his face. It didn't seem to matter anymore. She wondered what life would be like if she had chosen _him_. He was the enigma, the feared Phantom, yet he was human. And lately, her mind had been darting to him, craving the passion that had consumed their relationship. When he touched her, her skin felt as if it were aflame. When he was about to touch her, her skin tingled with anticipation. Would her life be monotonous if she had chosen him? She doubted it.

Where had he gone? Did he still live in the operahouse? It was no longer inhabited by others. How did he get his food, if he did still live there? Does Meg Giry, or her mother, bring him food? They seemed to be his caretakers. Was he dead? Despite everything that had occurred, he was still her Angel of Music. With that thought, all the songs they had sang began to flow together, to mesh lyrically, in her mind. Was she going crazy?

She wasn't crazy. She wanted attention. She wanted someone to want her. Certainly his adorations had been a bit much for her at the time, but he desired her. Did he still? Had he begun to hate her after she had chosen Raoul? Her choice had now begun to be neglectful. She doubted his love for her was still sincere. Yet what was the point of wondering if he still thought about her? She wandered up to her room, deciding to rest, to place him out of her conscious thoughts.

A soft laugh left her lips. When she lived at the _Opera Populaire_, she had been afraid to sleep, for fear the Angel would sing in her dreams again. Now she desperately sought sleep to avoid conscious thoughts of him. The mind certainly worked in peculiar ways. She arrived in her room, and was first greeted by stuffy, warm air. She headed to the bedroom window, and pushed aside the curtain to open the window. Lying there, distinct against the pale paint, was a fresh crimson rose, with a black ribbon tied across the stem.


End file.
